It was my sixth novel in five years.
‘With you,’ he said, ‘work is simply a drug.’
‘Lord Francis,’ I expostulated, ‘how do you know that?’
‘And it has got such a hold of you that you cannot do without it,’ he proceeded, with slow, faint shrillness. ‘Some women take to morphia, others take to work.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I have quite determined to do no more work for twelve months.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
He faced me, vivacious, and leaned against the back of the settee.
‘Then you mean to give yourself time to love?’ he murmured, as it were with a kind malice, and every crease in his veined and yellow features was intensified by an enigmatic smile.
‘Why not?’ I laughed encouragingly. ‘Why not? What do you advise?’